CHAPTER VII

The mother folded Yegor's hands over his breast and adjusted his
head, which was strangely warm, on the pillow. Then silently wiping
her eyes, she went to Liudmila, bent over her, and quietly stroked
her thick hair. The woman slowly turned around to her, her dull
eyes widened in a sickly way. She rose to her feet, and with
trembling lips whispered:

"I've known him for a long time. We were in exile together. We
went there together on foot, we sat in prison together; at times it
was intolerable, disgusting; many fell in spirit."

Her dry, loud groans stuck in her throat. She overcame them with an
effort, and bringing her face nearer to the mother's she continued
in a quick whisper, moaning without tears:

"Yet he was unconquerably jolly. He joked and laughed, and covered
up his suffering in a manly way, always striving to encourage the
weak. He was always good, alert, kind. There, in Siberia, idleness
depraves people, and often calls forth ugly feelings toward life.
How he mastered such feelings! What a comrade he was! If you only
knew. His own life was hard and tormented; but I know that nobody
ever heard him complain, not a soul--never! Here was I, nearer to
him than others. I'm greatly indebted to his heart, to his mind.
He gave me all he could of it; and though exhausted, he never asked
either kindness or attention in return."

She walked up to Yegor, bent down and kissed him. Her voice was
husky as she said mournfully:

"Comrade, my dear, dear friend, I thank you with all my heart!
Good-by. I shall work as you worked--unassailed by doubt--all my
life--good-by!"

The dry, sharp groans shook her body, and gasping for breath she
laid her head on the bed at Yegor's feet. The mother wept silent
tears which seared her cheeks. For some reason she tried to restrain
them. She wanted to fondle Liudmila, and wanted to speak about
Yegor with words of love and grief. She looked through her tears
at his swollen face, at his eyes calmly covered by his drooping
eyelids as in sleep, and at his dark lips set in a light, serene
smile. It was quiet, and a bleak brightness pervaded the room.

Ivan Danilovich entered, as always, with short, hasty steps. He
suddenly stopped in the middle of the room, and thrust his hands
into his pockets with a quick gesture.

"Did it happen long ago?" His voice was loud and nervous.

Neither woman replied. He quietly swung about, and wiping his
forehead went to Yegor, pressed his hand, and stepped to one side.

"It's not strange--with his heart. It might have happened six months ago."

His voice, high-pitched and jarringly loud for the occasion,
suddenly broke off. Leaning his back against the wall, he twisted
his beard with nimble fingers, and winking his eyes, rapidly looked
at the group by the bed.

"One more!" he muttered.

Liudmila rose and walked over to the window. The mother raised her
head and glanced around with a sigh. A minute afterwards they all
three stood at the open window, pressing close against one another,
and looked at the dusky face of the autumn night. On the black tops
of the trees glittered the stars, endlessly deepening the distance
of the sky.

Liudmila took the mother by the hand, and silently pressed her head
to her shoulders. The physician nervously bit his lips and wiped
his eyeglasses with his handkerchief. In the stillness beyond the
window the nocturnal noise of the city heaved wearily, and cold air
blew on their faces and shoulders. Liudmila trembled; the mother
saw tears running down her cheeks. From the corridor of the
hospital floated confused, dismal sounds. The three stood
motionless at the window, looking silently into the darkness.

The mother felt herself not needed, and carefully freeing her hand,
went to the door, bowing to Yegor.

"Are you going?" the physician asked softly without looking around.

"Yes."

In the street she thought with pity of Liudmila, remembering her
scant tears. She couldn't even have a good cry. Then she pictured
to herself Liudmila and the physician in the extremely light white
room, the dead eyes of Yegor behind them. A compassion for all
people oppressed her. She sighed heavily, and hastened her pace,
driven along by her tumultuous feelings.

"I must hurry," she thought in obedience to a sad but encouraging
power that jostled her from within.

The whole of the following day the mother was busy with preparations
for the funeral. In the evening when she, Nikolay, and Sofya were
drinking tea, quietly talking about Yegor, Sashenka appeared,
strangely brimming over with good spirits, her cheeks brilliantly
red, her eyes beaming happily. She seemed to be filled with some
joyous hope. Her animation contrasted sharply with the mournful
gloom of the others. The discordant note disturbed them and dazzled
them like a fire that suddenly flashes in the darkness. Nikolay
thoughtfully struck his fingers on the table and smiled quietly.

"You're not like yourself to-day, Sasha."

"Perhaps," she laughed happily.

The mother looked at her in mute remonstrance, and Sofya observed
in a tone of admonishment:

"And we were talking about Yegor Ivanovich."

"What a wonderful fellow, isn't he?" she exclaimed. "Modest, proof
against doubt, he probably never yielded to sorrow. I have never
seen him without a joke on his lips; and what a worker! He is an
artist of the revolution, a great master, who skillfully manipulates
revolutionary thoughts. With what simplicity and power he always
draws his pictures of falsehood, violence and untruth! And what a
capacity he has for tempering the horrible with his gay humor which
does not diminish the force of facts but only the more brightly
illumines his inner thought! Always droll! I am greatly indebted
to him, and I shall never forget his merry eyes, his fun. And I
shall always feel the effect of his ideas upon me in the time of my
doubts--I love him!"

She spoke in a moderated voice, with a melancholy smile in her eyes.
But the incomprehensible fire of her gaze was not extinguished; her
exultation was apparent to everybody.

People love their own feelings--sometimes the very feelings that are
harmful to them--are enamored of them, and often derive keen pleasure
even from grief, a pleasure that corrodes the heart. Nikolay, the
mother, and Sofya were unwilling to let the sorrowful mood produced
by the death of their comrade give way to the joy brought in by Sasha.
Unconsciously defending their melancholy right to feed on their
sadness, they tried to impose their feelings on the girl.

"And now he's dead," announced Sofya, watching her carefully.

Sasha glanced around quickly, with a questioning look. She knit
her eyebrows and lowered her head. She was silent for a short time,
smoothing her hair with slow strokes of her hand.

"He's dead?" She again cast a searching glance into their faces.
"It's hard for me to reconcile myself to the idea."

"But it's a fact," said Nikolay with a smile.

Sasha arose, walked up and down the room, and suddenly stopping,
said in a strange voice:

"What does 'to die' signify? What died? Did my respect for Yegor
die? My love for him, a comrade? The memory of his mind's labor?
Did that labor die? Did all our impressions of him as of a hero
disappear without leaving a trace? Did all this die? This best in
him will never die out of me, I know. It seems to me we're in too
great a hurry to say of a man 'he's dead.' That's the reason we too
soon forget that a man never dies if we don't wish our impressions
of his manhood, his self-denying toil for the triumph of truth and
happiness to disappear. We forget that everything should always be
alive in living hearts. Don't be in a hurry to bury the eternally
alive, the ever luminous, along with a man's body. The church is
destroyed, but God is immortal."

Carried away by her emotions she sat down, leaning her elbows on
the table, and continued more thoughtfully in a lower voice, looking
smilingly through mist-covered eyes at the faces of the comrades:

"Maybe I'm talking nonsense. But life intoxicates me by its wonderful
complexity, by the variety of its phenomena, which at times seem like
a miracle to me. Perhaps we are too sparing in the expenditure of our
feelings. We live a great deal in our thoughts, and that spoils us
to a certain extent. We estimate, but we don't feel."

"Did anything good happen to you?" asked Sofya with a smile.

"Yes," said Sasha, nodding her head. "I had a whole night's talk
with Vyesovshchikov. I didn't use to like him. He seemed rude and
dull. Undoubtedly that's what he was. A dark, immovable irritation
at everybody lived in him. He always used to place himself, as it
were, like a dead weight in the center of things, and wrathfully
say, 'I, I, I.' There was something bourgeois in this, low, and
exasperating." She smiled, and again took in everybody with her
burning look.

"Now he says: 'Comrades'--and you ought to hear how he says it,
with what a stirring, tender love. He has grown marvelously simple
and open-hearted, and possessed with a desire to work. He has found
himself, he has measured his power, and knows what he is not. But
the main thing is, a true comradely feeling has been born in him, a
broad, loving comradeship, which smiles in the face of every
difficulty in life."

Vlasova listened to Sasha attentively. She was glad to see this girl,
always so stern, now softened, cheerful, and happy. Yet from some
deeps of her soul arose the jealous thought: "And how about Pasha?"

"He's entirely absorbed in thoughts of the comrades," continued Sasha.
"And do you know of what he assures me? Of the necessity of arranging
an escape for them. He says it's a very simple, easy matter."

Sofya raised her head, and said animatedly:

"And what do YOU think, Sasha? Is it feasible?"

The mother trembled as she set a cup of tea on the table. Sasha
knit her brows, her animation gone from her. After a moment's
silence, she said in a serious voice, but smiling in joyous confusion:

"HE'S convinced. If everything is really as he says, we ought to
try. It's our duty." She blushed, dropped into a chair, and lapsed
into silence.

"My dear, dear girl!" the mother thought, smiling. Sofya also
smiled, and Nikolay, looking tenderly into Sasha's face, laughed
quietly. The girl raised her head with a stern glance for all.
Then she paled, and her eyes flashed, and she said dryly, the
offense she felt evident in her voice:

"But I decline. I'll not take any part in deciding the question
if you consider it."

"Stop, Sasha," said Nikolay calmly.

The mother understood the girl. She went to her and kissed her
silently on her head. Sasha seized her hand, leaned her cheek on
it, and raised her reddened face, looking into the mother's eyes,
troubled and happy. The mother silently stroked her hair. She
felt sad at heart. Sofya seated herself at Sasha's side, her arm
over her shoulder, and said, smiling into the girl's eyes:

"That'll do," said Nikolay seriously, but immediately followed up the
admonition by the businesslike remark: "There can't be two opinions
as to the escape, if it's possible to arrange it. But before
everything, we must know whether the comrades in prison want it."

Sasha drooped her head. Sofya, lighting a cigarette, looked at
her brother, and with a broad sweep of her arm dropped the match
in a corner.

"How is it possible they should not want it?" asked the mother
with a sigh. Sofya nodded to her, smiling, and walked over to the
window. The mother could not understand the failure of the others
to respond, and looked at them in perplexity. She wanted so much
to hear more about the possibility of an escape.

"I must see Vyesovshchikov," said Nikolay.

"All right. To-morrow I'll tell you when and where," replied Sasha.

"What is he going to do?" asked Sofya, pacing through the room.

"It's been decided to make him compositor in a new printing place.
Until then he'll stay with the forester."

Sasha's brow lowered. Her face assumed its usual severe expression.
Her voice sounded caustic. Nikolay walked up to the mother, who was
washing cups, and said to her:

"You'll see Pasha day after to-morrow. Hand him a note when you're
there. Do you understand? We must know."

"I understand. I understand," the mother answered quickly. "I'll
deliver it to him all right. That's my business."